The Eagle's Crippled Wings
by Cat in Disguise
Summary: Several weeks have past since Altair killed Al Mualim and retrieved the Piece of Eden. For the same amount of time, the new Mentor has not rested, not even when his body screamed at him, begged him for sleep. And now, he must face the consequences. Altair/Desmond Currently on Hold
1. Chapter 1

This has been an idea of mine for quite a while, I just haven't gotten around to putting it in writing until now.

**Summary**: After neglecting his health in interest of his assassinations to further weaken the Templars, Altair falls deathly ill. The only solution anyone can see is for him to use the forbidden Piece of Eden to project his consciousness into an era that may have the cure for the illness. But the Apple has a will of its own, and it has something more planned for him.

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><p>'There are many types of sickness, each of them somehow interconnected with the others. The most common is sickness of the body. If the mind is troubled or distracted, the body is without direction and gradually destroys itself.'<p>

A paragraph from the medical texts his master had forced him to read in the early stages of his training swam to the surface of Altair's fevered brain. At that time, it had seemed a useless bit of information, something he would never need to remember. Well, this situation proved otherwise. His musings were cut short by a nasty lurching sensation in his stomach. Swiftly, he shrank back against a haystack, retching to rid himself of the sensation. Saliva mixed with the minimal contents of his stomach splattered the wooden planks of the guard post. When the disturbance had finally calmed, he stood perfectly still for several long moments, chest heaving and sweat trickling down his face. Cursing under his breath, he began to make his way to the bureau. No doubt Malik would be eager to lecture him on the importance of health.

Several times on the way there he came across a patrol of guards. Fortunately, none of them attempted to draw him into combat, which he secretly thanked them for. Eventually, he found the bureau, but the ground level entrance was, of course, sealed. Just like any visitor to the bureau, he would have to enter through the roof. So, steeling himself, he clambered up the wall using the window ledges and iron rungs. He dropped through the grate on the roof and strode to the counter. Just as he always was, Malik was standing behind it poring over a series of old maps.

"Safety and Peace, brother." Altair scowled inwardly when he heard the heavy rasp of his words, like he had swallowed all the sand in the desert. Malik glanced up at his friend, concern flickering in his usually indifferent gaze.

"Upon you as well." He paused, looking Altair over, trying to find any abnormalities in the Master Assassin. "Are you quite all right? Somehow, you do not seem yourself . . ." Altair cursed under his breath. Was his condition truly so obvious to others?

"I am fine, Malik, no need for alarm." The rafiq still looked skeptical, for it was not common for Altair to visit Jerusalem, save for assigning informers in the city.

"Then, pray tell, what brings you here?" Hawk like golden eyes narrowed as Altair struggled to find a plausible excuse. In all honesty, his condition was what had driven him to seek out the bureau in the first place, but to reveal that would only needlessly worry Malik and the Brotherhood. He shook his head, which had begun to pound again with dizzying ferocity. As if to worsen the situation, his lungs and throat began to burn, raising the immediate instinct to cough and clear them. But, not now, because doing so would just confirm Malik's suspicions.

"Nothing particular, just an-" His words halted in his throat as he doubled over, hand clapped over his mouth as another wave of nausea slammed into him at full force. Throaty, rattling coughs ran up and down Altair's body every few seconds. A smoldering heat, like that of hot coals on flesh, blossomed within his gut, growing steadily stronger with each cough. Finally, the attack stopped, and he pulled his hand away from his lips, breath ragged. The digits splayed out in front of his eyes, and he was shocked to find them dripping with blood.

"Altair?!" This time when Malik spoke there was genuine alarm in his voice. Hazelnut met sunrise gold when Altair's gaze shot to his as the Master Assassin crumpled to the floor.

"Assign . . . ment . . ."

That final, pitiful excuse whispered from him before the world went dark.

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><p>The white matrix screen of the Animus faded from Desmond's psyche, allowing him to reenter the present. Moments after it did he lurched to his feet, ripping the door to the bathroom open and collapsing on his knees in front of the toilet, vomiting his guts out. His stomach churned and clenched, trying to rid itself of the disgusting heat within his organs. The convulsions gradually ended, but he didn't have the energy to rise from his position. Instead, he pressed his forehead to the cool porcelain bowl while his lungs fought to return air to themselves.<p>

When Lucy had suggested they return to Altair' memories so Desmond cold 'learn' any skill Ezio had neglected to learn, he had not objected. Returning to the Syrian would be a welcome change from the Italian after such a long period of time. But, he did not foresee the impact it had when he was slammed back into his older ancestor's memories. Altair's thought patterns and beliefs were so detached from the carefree cheerfulness of the Italian, that the adjustment was, to say the least, jarring. Someone knocked on the door, which must have swung shut behind him and stepped in without waiting for a response.

"Desmond? Are you all right?" The new assassin raised his pounding head to gaze blearily at Lucy's familiar shape. He pulled himself away from the toilet only to slouch in exhaustion against the wall.

"Yeah . . . Think so . . . I just didn't expect that, is all."

"None of us did. It wasn't something that happens to assassins very commonly." Desmond blinked at her choice of words.

"What didn't? Getting sick?" A nod confirmed it.

"The immune systems of members of the Brotherhood were usually much stronger than other people. It doesn't make sense that Altair would get a condition so serious." Desmond shuddered at the memory of sharing said severe condition with his ancestor.

"Anyway, try and get some rest." The sentence barely registered in Desmond's fever-addled brain. Instead of bothering to get into his makeshift bed, he let his eyelids slide closed with the cool tile pressed against his skin.

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><p>Malik had set Altair on the mats and pillows used for a resting area just after he had collapsed, and then had hurried to send a message back to Masyaf and to his informers around the city, hoping to gather any tidbits of knowledge that may help.<p>

For what felt like an eternity, he watched over Altair as his comrade suffered, sweat pouring down his face while he shifted restlessly from the unbearable heat enveloping his skin. Golden eyes bright with fever shifted beneath his closed eyelids, unaware of their surroundings.

A scowl marred Malik's expression as he took in the sight. The heavy white robes the Master Assassin usually wore had been discarded, leaving only a thin cotton shirt underneath. When he and removed them, his hands flinched away in shock at the sheer amount and intensity of the heat radiating of the skin. So, judging from the seriousness of the condition, the fever had been steadily growing worse over a long period of time.

"What in the world were you thinking, Altair?" Malik muttered to the man in utter exasperation. Almost in response, Altair jerked like he'd received an electric shock and then settled again, a moan of pain leaving his lips. Moments afterward he began to shiver violently, drawing his knees up to his chest. Carefully, so as to not wake the obviously-suffering man, Malik covered him with one of the many blankets lying on the floor before setting out to find a doctor.

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><p>Anyone who's ever had a fever so bad it felt as if their body was cooking from the inside knows (or should know) what a fever dream is. A nightmare, twisted and corrupted by the mental and physical state of the person experiencing it, the world of sleep, that should be welcome, becomes something terrifying. Coincidentally, Altair did not know what such thing that was, despite scolding others for lacking the same knowledge. He never bothered to make it a major priority to memorize something so insignificant. Why bother to learn something he will never need to know?<p>

Well, each great assassin made a mistake from time to time.

The realm of Altair's dreams was something similar to the world the Apple of Eden had shown him when he had first held it for himself. Everything around him was jet-black, save for the blinding white symbols and unusual structures flashing through the air. Things were shown to him that he did not understand: a frame of wood and fabric constructed to resemble gigantic wings, a metal table with unusual devices attached to it. Nothing that should have existed, and yet it all flashed before his eyes.

And then, of course, there were voices. Muffled at first, but growing stronger. They all jumbled together, only a few choice phrases clarifying enough for him to comprehend.

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><p>'<em>It would drive weaker minds insane . . . "<em>

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><p><em>'What have you done to me?'<em>

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><p>'<em>He's talking to me?'<em>

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><p>'<em>Another artifact? . . . No. You will stay here.'<em>

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><p>'<em>The rest is up to you, Desmond.'<em>

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><p>'<em>Stop, please!'<em>

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><p>Altair's consciousness faltered at the last sentence. The voice . . . it had sounded so desperate, so helpless, so . . . <em>alone.<em> What could make anyone sound like that? The surge of protective rage surprised him. He had never felt so strongly about someone else's well-being, even his Masters. So why, why was this boy so important to him? A boy that may not even exist. Someone who didn't even have a na- No. It - _he _- had a name. The woman had said it herself. What had it been? Surely he could remember something from mere moments ago! And then . . .

'"_Desmond."_

The name repeated itself over and over, like a mantra, until it became something he would remember forever, regardless of whether or not it was real.

_Desmond_

_Desmond_

_Desmond_

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><p>Several hours and one long, fruitless search for a suitable healer later, Malik returned to the bureau, still fuming from an argument with a doctor who refused to treat anyone who wasn't somehow related to nobility. The still air of the late night of Jerusalem was broken only by the incoherent murmurs of Altair, who was still pressed deeply into the blankets. Malik sighed, his temper abating some as he rummaged for some cloth to wrap the ice the doctor had given him in.<p>

He returned to Altair's side with a carefully tied cloth full of ice, which he placed on the man's forehead. As he did, he could just barely make out a word he seemed to be muttering repeatedly under his breath.

"Des . . . mond . . ." His voice, usually so indifferent and calculating, dripped in affection and, if it was even possible for the man, warmth. Whatever, or whoever, this Desmond was, it was obvious he cared for them a very great deal. So why did he never speak of them to anyone, not even the Master?

A shrill, piercing cry broke Malik out of his reverie. He turned towards the open window, where a young golden eagle perched on the sill, seeming to see right through him with its sharp gaze. He untied the note from around the birds back and read the neat scrawl of the healer in Masyaf fortress.

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><p><em>Malik<em>

_I have received your letter and reply with utmost seriousness and prayers that all will not crumble because of what I have done. However, the loss of our Grand Master so early into his enrollment into the position would deal an even greater blow to our forces._

_You demanded I take whatever measures __necessary as long as he is cured of the illness. _

_That is what I have sent you._

_Safety and Peace be upon you._

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><p>Malik frowned again, confused by the doctor's words. Until he turned back to the eagle, which was still staring expectantly up at him. It dipped its head slightly, trying to indicate his burden was not yet lifted. Skeptically, with his heart pounding far beyond natural speed, he followed the path of the yellow irises; and gasped.<p>

Clutched in it's talons was the Apple of Eden.

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><p>Constructive criticism is welcomed. If you think this story is worth continuing or not, please let me know.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

For a long time, the only sound in the Sanctuary was the shuffling of papers, the quick tapping of Rebecca's fingers on the keyboard, and Desmond's labored breathing from inside the Animus. Since they didn't have any proper beds or blankets with them, Lucy had suggested he sleep in the Animus. It was better than nothing, at the very least. But that only remedied part of the problem. They had no sort of antibiotics to give the newest member of the group, and couldn't risk going into town to get some from the pharmacy. All they could do was let the fever run its course.

When her thoughts reached Desmond, Lucy glanced up worriedly from her work. He was coated in a sheen of cold sweat, but shivering violently. The vomiting had stopped, at the very least, but it was quickly replaced with gut-wrenching coughing fits that brought up blood and a thick, yellow-green mucus. Every cough sounded as if he was dying. And the way things were going for him, he would.

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><p>Malik stared in complete awe and outrage at the object that thrummed softly from within the honed talons of the eagle. This was the only solution the Brotherhood could possibly come up with?! <em>This <em>artifact? The very object that drove their former Master to insanity, that pushed the Templars and Assassins to the edge of war, and turned skilled and cunning warriors into mindless drones?!

Perhaps Altair was not the only one who still remained a novice after all this time.

The bureau leader sighed in frustration as he snatched the object from the eagle, which gave an indignant squawk at being knocked of its makeshift perch. At the moment Malik's hand brushed the smooth surface of the object, it began to pulse gently, the silver object softening until it felt as warm ad gentle as human flesh. It was resonating with something hidden within him, within everyone.

He frowned at it, pondering the impossible question it posed. The gentle purring of the Apple continued, yielding no sort of answer. Yes, it definitely responded to something, but exactly what, he had no idea. No one did. Some of the Brotherhood could activate it, some couldn't. Even the strength of the reaction varied from person to person. Most of the time, the artifact did little more than glow a bit for most people. But for those higher up, it hummed, warming under a person's palm. Very few elicited the reaction Malik did, making the object soften like it did. But with Altair . . . the reaction was several times more powerful than anyone else could, including the late master.

He sighed again, a mixture of frustration and bewilderment. Such a trivial thing should be left for those who pretended to have knowledge about the thing. There was something serious he had to attend to, after all. As if sensing his thoughts, Altair turned over in his sleep, a mild shudder running down his spine. The tension in the man's muscles had not loosened at all, which meant he was still suffering great pain.

In his hand, the Apple hummed loudly and began to glow even more powerfully. The thing was actually _responding _to the man, echoing the pain it could feel from him with comfort. The rafiq shook his head in disbelief, placing the artifact next to his comrade as he did so.

"This will mean the death of us." He muttered, just before the night around him blazed in a soft golden light.

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><p>Several hours after his initial collapse, Desmond still had not woken up from the deep slumber brought on by the fever. The entire time, Lucy worked to keep his temperature down while Shawn and Rebecca continued to fine-tune their equipment. Rebecca worked furiously at the Animus, trying to modify the code so nothing like this would happen again. She seemed to be working the hardest out of all of them, despite what Shawn may say to that statement. But, of course, it didn't mean they all didn't work hard, not at all.<p>

Lucy sighed, walking back towards her desk for the first time in hours, rolling her aching shoulders as she went. Desmond's temperature had finally stabilized somewhat, and she really could use a rest. Plus, she didn't want to disturb him now he was sleeping so peacefully. She looked back at their youngest member and smiled fondly at the mildly peaceful expression. After all this time, she had noticed that he was either scowling or grinning like an idiot. He never wore such a relaxed expression around anyone.

A soft golden light emanated from the small chest resting in the center of the room, accompanied by a powerful humming that vibrated the entire container. Rebecca looked up in interest, approaching the box slowly, like it might explode if she moved too quickly. Shawn's gaze hadn't left his work, but his shoulders were visibly tensed. There was a ringing silence between them, while the hum carried on, echoing all throughout the safe house. It was Rebecca who finally broke the half-silence.

"The Apple is . . . reacting to something?"

"It seems so. But reacting to what?"

"Most likely Desmond." Both girls jumped as Shawn chimed in to the conversation. He had slid up next to the chest, studying the rays of light emanating from the object inside. "He and his ancestors bring the greatest reaction out of the Pieces of Eden, as far as we know, and he seems to be in some kind of distress, so it could be that."

Both girls shared a skeptical look before Rebecca glanced over at Shawn again. A challenge danced just behind the self-important glint Shawn always seemed to have in his eyes. Instead of taking up the man and his false bravado, she stalked up to the box and snapped open the two metal clasps holding the lid down.

Immediately after, the light intensified until it was like the sun had landed in the room. A high, keening ring resonated from the box, growing louder and louder until it became nearly unbearable levels. Everyone in the room clapped their hands over their ears, eyes screwed shut, as the light and sound intensified even further. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. The light faded away, and the shrill keen ceased along with it. When no trace of the two elements remained except for a ringing in the temple.

Desmond shot upwards, gasping for breath and coated in sweat, eyes burning golden and staring straight ahead.

"Desmond!" Rebecca streaked to her friend's side, placing a hand on his tensed shoulders. "Are you okay?" When she asked, she began to rub soothing circles into the muscles, which he gratefully relaxed into. She repeated her question as his breathing steadied itself, sand he nodded slowly, but his eyes remained an eerie golden luster.

"My room . . ." He whispered, just barely audible over the echoes throughout the gigantic chamber.

"What?" That seemed to snap him out of his stupor. He blinked several times over until his eyes returned to normal, and he turned to face Rebecca. An almost trancelike concentration still glazed his pupils.

"In my room . . ." Lucy's eyes met Rebecca's for a split second before the both of them sprinted into the room closed off for the team's newest member. Both gasped in shock at the sight that greeted them.

Lying feet from the bed was the motionless form of Altair Ibn-La'Ahad.

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><p>Holy fucking shit crud bitch. This is one of the worst chapters of any story I've written so far. I am so sorry for this. But I know you guys were eager for a new chapter so I tried to get it out as fast as I could. Once again, I am so so sorry for this, I'll try to do better in the future. Anyway, thanks to any of you who suffered through this chapter for me! Until next time, buh bye!<p> 


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